19

The cell phone’s retro ringtone shrilled throughout the house, and The Invisible Man dropped from Clay’s hand to his lap. He launched from his chair and the circle of lamplight, across the dark living room. The paperback slid to the floor. A corner of the cover bent under his heel. Be Khloe, be Khloe, be Khloe—the same mantra that had pounded in his head every time the phone rang this evening. Yul wanting to reschedule the bowling game. A photography client of Natalia’s. A wrong number.

He glanced at the caller ID and took the call anyway, hoping he’d silenced the ring before it woke Natalia with that same stillborn hope. “Hi, Mom.”

“Clayton, it’s Dad. Your mother wanted me to let you know we got in okay. The flight was pleasantly boring.”

“Great.”

“And we’re with Don right now, on the way to the house to see Tina. What’s new with my favorite granddaughter?”

Clay’s stomach bottomed out. He should have anticipated the routine question. He should have hit Ignore to silence the phone, not Accept.

“She’s asleep at the moment.”

Khloe probably was, somewhere. Curled on her side, the same way she’d slept since she was a toddler. Nestled in a stranger’s bed. Clay trudged back across the room in the dark and kicked The Invisible Man.

“Oh, I’m such an idiot.” Dad’s voice distanced from the phone. “Honey, it’s midnight in Michigan.”

“Sure is.” Clay stooped to pick up the book, and his body melted toward the carpet. He sat, knees up.

“Were you in bed, Clayton? I’m such an idiot.”

“I was reading.”

“Well, Tina’s had a rough day. We’re stopping to pick up all the ingredients for your mother’s chicken noodle soup, and she’s cooking for her tomorrow. Hoping this perks her up some.”

Clay smoothed a new crease from the book’s cover. “Sounds good.”

“They’re talking about hospice. It felt like we were intruding at first, but Don seems relieved to see us. I guess we belong here.”

“You don’t belong here.” Dad’s voice, Dad’s hands clamped around Clay’s arms, pulling him away from the window in the door. Away from Hilary’s face.

“People should be with her, to say good-bye.” The words emerged like acid, burned the back of Clay’s throat, but nothing in his tone gave him away. Nothing ever had. Not in the twenty-eight years since his parents told him they’d ended Hilary’s life support while he was at school.

“Seems you’re right. Don cried just seeing us. Caught both of us off guard and him, too, I think. Anyway, we might be here for a few weeks.”

Mom’s best friend, about to succumb to ovarian cancer. Would she put all the pictures away as if Tina never existed? Quiet lengthened over the phone line. Dad probably didn’t notice. Clay stretched out on the carpet and stared at the ceiling.

Tap tap.

Clay jolted up as if cattle-prodded. Knuckles on glass. The sound couldn’t be anything else. The lamp’s reflection glared off every window in this room. Someone could be watching him through any one of them.

Tap tap tap.

No, the noise came from farther away. “Dad, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Of course. Sorry to bother you at midnight.” The chuckle grated.

“No problem. Good night.” Clay ended the call before his father could respond, but Dad probably wouldn’t notice that, either.

He stuffed the phone in his pocket and crawled on hands and knees to the lamp. He reached up to shut it off, and a quick image of the bulb flashed on his retinas as the room blackened. But if the Constabulary were out there, they’d been listening to his conversation. They knew he wasn’t talking to Khloe. And if they wanted in, they wouldn’t knock on his window.

He stood in the dark and tried to step toward the noise.

Tap tap tap tap.

Helpful. It came from the guestroom, other side of the laundry room. No way to discover the prowler’s identity or purpose before revealing himself. Not from inside the house, anyway. Clay detoured to the garage door and slipped outside, bare feet silent on the cement floor. He stretched his hands out for his bike and grazed a handlebar. He dodged before he could break his toe against the side stand.

Clay felt for the switch beside the door and turned off the motion-activated floodlight. He eased the door open and stepped outside. A wedge of moon peeked around a cloud, enough to see his own feet but not to scan for intruders. Clay’s hands clenched. If he could identify this imbecile as a Constabulary agent, he’d try to get in one good punch, then claim he hadn’t recognized the uniform in the dark.

The scent of honeysuckle filled the air as he rounded the side of the house. He crouched beside the bush and peered around the edge of the leaves.

Definitely a man. About his height. The moon emerged to halo a shaggy blond head. Low-rise jeans and a V-neck T-shirt instead of a uniform. Perfect. Maybe Clay could clock the guy in the teeth before he could call out his Constabulary identity.

He eased around the honeysuckle and crept closer, almost on top of the man before he turned, the whites of his eyes bright in the dark.

“What—?”

Clay threw a punch at the whisper. The man ducked, grabbed Clay’s arm, and half twisted it behind his back before letting go.

“Mr. Hansen.”

Wait. That voice. Clay sprang back for another look. Austin Delvecchio.